


The Drip and the Leak

by fucktheshutup



Series: Labstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Science Experiments, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fucktheshutup/pseuds/fucktheshutup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn't enough ventilation in the sewers underneath the plant and the air is stale, thick with toxins and rich with the scent of mold. It tends to muddle that "pan" of his from time to time. A wonder, really, that he can still think at all. While there isn't much of importance drifting about in there, he does have the constant feeling t hat there was something else before the scrape of bone against the ceiling as he walked and the slicing of skin every time he closed his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drip and the Leak

**Author's Note:**

> There are no definite romantic pairings other than Gamkar and Karezi planned as of yet, but they _will_ show up later on in the story. They'll be tagged when they're reached!

His name was Gamzee Makara because the inscription sewn into the hem of his t-shirt told him so. He felt as if he'd been rutting around in the sewers his entire life; all he knew was the soft spattering of his bare feet against concrete, the slick tunnel walls and rusting pipes, the stench so overwhelming that he'd learned to hold his breath for minutes on end. Then there was the trickling of fresh water through cracks above his head when there was rain. He would lap at it sometimes. As icy droplets of rain slithered along the wall, he would press himself close to claim them with his tongue before tracing the paths they'd form. Every bit of moisture counted. The tunnels were horribly dry, for some reason.

He would resurface from time to time, of course. There was never sunlight and the air was thick and rank with the waste plant's exhaust. Creaks and groans and shrill whistles sounded from the plant and these noises were the only noises he would hear for hours on end whenever he knelt behind his favorite grove of parched shrubbery just outside an expansive barbed-wire fence. On occasion, he would see them—the others. They never breached the fence, never wandered too far from the plant itself, but he saw them, even learned a few names. He imagined it might be nice to touch one of them. Three years without the feel of another person's skin, however brief, drove him mad. Well, it drove him mad whenever he happened to think of it. Sometimes, it didn't concern him. He wasn't even sure that he'd been touched before the three years, so maybe it wasn't as distressing as he made it out to be.

The others looked fairly well-fed. He seethed with crippling envy whenever it came to his attention, invoked by the sight of their supposed "alpha male". This boy didn't carry the air of any sort of leader, to be honest, and it took Gamzee several months to catch on. He was a bit chubbier than the other boys and stood a little over five feet; he walked with his hands crammed into his jean pockets, but he stared straight ahead as if nothing bothered him. He was a shuffling contradiction of body language that Gamzee couldn't get a clear read on. He supposed it didn't matter; Gamzee could barely read as it was, so it could have been a fault on his part.

Gamzee would watch the others for what he figured was an hour each time. (There wasn't any convenient means by which he could measure time down in the sewers, so he relied on the bellows that sounded from the plant every once in a while. Plant employees on came out and went in according to those bellows; they had to have been an indication of the hours.) The others never stayed outside for more than that long. They would gather together near the fence to talk and stare out into the surrounding woods with its rotting trees and dusty soil and they would sometimes bring a tarp out with them to sit and eat by the fence. Gamzee thought about snatching a sandwich or two sometimes. His hands and wrists were bony enough to slide through holes in the fence links, and he was sure he could go about his business unnoticed. He never dared, though. Their leader was an observant little fuck. Gamzee guessed he had to be; he was in charge of the group's resident blind girl, whose name he'd learned was Terezi.

(She actually appeared to be perfectly capable of functioning on her own. Gamzee _knew_ she was. But that imp with her shrill giggle and tendency to lick every morsel of food before eating it insisted on keeping close to the "alpha" because he had a terrible habit of fretting over her. "Terezi, you can't lick the fence! Terezi, that's a pile of cement blocks, not the stairs!" And Terezi would cackle and thank him for watching out for her well-being, but she wasn't stupid and she wasn't inept. Perhaps she just liked the attention when she could get it. Gamzee wasn't very fond of her.)

Whenever the others returned to the plant and Gamzee grew bored with watching the employees scuffle around with boxes and equipment, he would slither back into his sewer to grab something to eat—literally. He had to grab it or it would all wash away with the tide of disposed chemicals and toxic waste and piss. His favorite pipe wasn't as dirty as the rest. He would stand underneath it with his hands outstretched, and after waiting a few minutes (because "shipments" were timed, but frequent) his meal would arrive. The sludge would creep from the pipe like day-glo mucus with specks of dirt for seasoning. It felt like mucus, too, seeping through his fingers as he tried to gather it in his hands. He would let the sludge overflow a bit before shoveling it into his mouth and swallowing it. It crept down his throat, luke-warm and tasting of iron and something fouler, and it latched onto the sides of his esophagus so that he had to gulp several times to get it going. He would repeat the process a few more times until he got his fill.

The sludge was enough to keep his stomach quiet and his head from spinning. He would slump against the wall, sliding down to sit on the walkway with his feet dangling out over the river of waste. And it didn’t matter to him then that his pajama pants were always stiff with their muck-encrusted cuffs, or that he could see his ribs more and more every day and he couldn't remember what a real shower felt like. It didn't matter that he couldn't figure out why he didn't want to leave the sewers or stray away from the plant when there was nothing stopping him. _Nothing_ mattered. He drifted, completely and totally at peace, and the friends taking refuge somewhere inside his head would tell him stories until he fell asleep. The stories would get stranger with each telling—something about the coming Messiahs and the new friends that would take their place. Gamzee never thought anything of it. By the time the stories were underway, he wasn't thinking anything at all.

He simply listened.


End file.
